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“Neither of them is. And whether they’ve a roof above their heads or not—both of them are home.”
Roger had not the slightest doubt that Jamie Fraser would live free, or die. And wished for an instant, with a longing that gnawed his bones, that he might be there, to fight by his father-in-law’s side.
“I’m proud of you, William,” he’d said quietly. “I always will be.”
The smell and the laughter drew her like a magnet, and the warmth of home flowed over her, golden as honey.
Home is where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.” Ian raised a brow, looked from me to Jamie, and shook his head. “Nay wonder ye’re sae fond of her, Uncle. She must be a rare comfort to ye.” “Well,” Jamie said, his eyes fixed on his work, “she keeps takin’ me in—so I suppose she must be home.”
So much love in one small place.
“Jamie,” I said at last. “Oh, Jamie. You’re … everything. Always.”
He’d know that to touch Auntie Claire—without killing Uncle Jamie at the same time—would be suicide.
They were, in fact, Jamie Fraser’s eyes, and they gave John a faint, passing clench of the heart whenever Willie looked at him with a certain expression.
“For a long time,” he said at last, “when I was small, I pretended to myself that I was the bastard of some great man. All orphans do this, I think,” he added dispassionately. “It makes life easier to bear, to pretend that it will not always be as it is, that someone will come and restore you to your rightful place in the world.” He shrugged. “Then I grew older, and knew this was not true. No one would come to rescue me. But then—” He turned his head and gave Jamie a smile of surpassing sweetness. “Then I grew older still, and discovered that, after all, it was true. I am the son of a great
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But even things that heal leave scars.
“I thought … you were so young. You do remember your father?” Roger shook his head, the chambers of his heart clenching hard, grasping emptiness. “No,” he said softly, and bent his head, breathing in the scent of his daughter’s hair. “I remember yours.”
“You haven’t any hesitation about this?” I said to Jamie. “I mean—after all, he is a dog.” He gave me an eye and a moody shrug. “Aye, well. I’ve known battles fought for worse reasons. And since this time yesterday, I’ve committed piracy, mutiny, and murder. I may as well add treason and make a day of it.” “Besides, Auntie,” Ian said reprovingly, “he’s a good dog.”
“Come to bed, a nighean. Nothing hurts when ye love me.” He was right; nothing did.
“Dinna fash; it will be all right.”
“I could pick you out of a crowd blindfolded; you glow in the dark.”
“Why is it that women don’t make war, I wonder?” “Ye’re no made for it, Sassenach.” His hand cupped my cheek, hard and rough. “And it wouldna be right; you women take so much more with ye, when ye go.”
“When a man dies, it’s only him,” he said. “And one is much like another. Aye, a family needs a man, to feed them, protect them. But any decent man can do it. A woman …” His lips moved against my fingertips, a faint smile. “A woman takes life with her when she goes. A woman is … infinite possibility.”
I’d held him in my hand for the best part of my life.
“I’m the less bothered for myself,” he said thoughtfully. “Looking at it all in all, I mean, I’ve done the odd useful thing here and there. My children are grown; my grandchildren are thriving—that’s the most important thing, no?”
Do women hold back the evolution of such things as freedom and other social ideals, out of fear for themselves or their children? Or do they in fact inspire such things—and the risks required to reach them—by providing the things worth fighting for? Not merely fighting to defend, either, but to propel forward, for a man wanted more for his children than he would ever have.
A man’s life had to have more purpose than only to feed himself each day.
“I’ve heard it said that a man’s reach must exceed his grasp—or what’s a heaven for?”
“And he’s already managed to fall in love with someone else?” He smiled at me. “Ever heard of coup de foudre, Sassenach? It didna take me more than one good look at you.” “Hmm,” I said, pleased.
“You do mean it, then,” I said. “You feel … er … betrothed to her?” “Well, of course he does, Sassenach,” Jamie said, reaching for another slice of toast. “He left her his dog.”
“You’re the world I have,” she murmured, and then her breathing changed, and she took him down with her into safety.
It was possible to leave things behind—places, people, memories—at least for a time. But places held tight to the things that had happened in them, and to come again to a place you had once lived was to be brought face-to-face with what you had done there and who you had been.
“It’s all right, a duine,” she said softly. “Go to your young woman. Ye’ll always be here wi’ us.” The steam of his tears rose like the smoke of incense from his heart, and he laid the pebble gently on his daughter’s grave. Safe among his family. It wasn’t until many days later, in the middle of the ocean, that he realized his mother had called him a man.
“Where d’ye think he is now?” Jenny said suddenly. “Ian, I mean.” He glanced at the house, then at the new grave waiting, but of course that wasn’t Ian anymore. He was panicked for a moment, his earlier emptiness returning—but then it came to him, and, without surprise, he knew what it was Ian had said to him. “On your right, man.” On his right. Guarding his weak side. “He’s just here,” he said to Jenny, nodding to the spot between them. “Where he belongs.”
Knowledge might be a poisoned gift—but it was still a gift, and few people would voluntarily give it back.
Like forgiveness, it was not a thing once learned and then comfortably put aside but a matter of constant practice—to accept the notion of one’s own mortality, and yet live fully, was a paradox worthy of Socrates.
“The world is turning upside down,” he blurted. “And you are the only constant thing. The only thing I—that binds me to the earth.”
